"droned" poems
Three sang of love together: one with lips
Crimson, with cheeks and ***** in a glow,
Flushed to the yellow hair and finger-tips;
And one there sang who soft and smooth as snow
Bloomed like a tinted hyacinth at a show;
And one was blue with famine after love,
Who like a harpstring snapped rang harsh and low
The burden of what those were singing of.
One shamed herself in love; one temperately
Grew gross in soulless love, a sluggish wife;
One famished died for love. Thus two of three
Took death for love and won him after strife;
One droned in sweetness like a fattened bee:
All on the threshold, yet all short of life.
5.3k
A dancing Bear grotesque and funny
Earned for his master heaps of money,
Gruff yet good-natured, fond of honey,
And cheerful if the day was sunny.
Past hedge and ditch, past pond and wood
He tramped, and on some common stood;
There, cottage children circling gaily,
He in their midmost footed daily.
Pandean pipes and drum and muzzle
Were quite enough his brain to puzzle:
But like a philosophic bear
He let alone extraneous care
And danced contented anywhere.
Still, year on year, and wear and tear,
Age even the gruffest, bluffest bear.
A day came when he scarce could prance,
And when his master looked askance
On dancing Bear who would not dance.
To looks succeeded blows; hard blows
Battered his ears and poor old nose.
From bluff and gruff he waxed curmudgeon;
He danced indeed, but danced in dudgeon,
Capered in fury fast and faster.
Ah, could he once but hug his master
And perish in one joint disaster!
But deafness, blindness, weakness growing,
Not fury's self could keep him going.
One dark day when the snow was snowing
His cup was brimmed to overflowing:
He tottered, toppled on one side,
Growled once, and shook his head, and died.
The master kicked and struck in vain,
The weary drudge had distanced pain
And never now would wince again.
The master growled; he might have howled
Or coaxed,--that slave's last growl was growled.
So gnawed by rancor and chagrin
One thing remained: he sold the skin.
What next the man did is not worth
Your notice or my setting forth,
But hearken what befell at last.
His idle working days gone past,
And not one friend and not one penny
Stored up (if ever he had any
Friends; but his coppers had been many),
All doors stood shut against him but
The workhouse door, which cannot shut.
There he droned on,--a grim old sinner,
Toothless, and grumbling for his dinner,
Unpitied quite, uncared for much
(The rate-payers not favoring such),
Hungry and gaunt, with time to spare;
Perhaps the hungry, gaunt old Bear
Danced back, a haunting memory.
Indeed, I hope so, for you see
If once the hard old heart relented,
The hard old man may have repented.
4.6k
the priest, whose tomato face looked like it might explode under collar tension,
gave the valedictory at the friday night execution
the yellow-toothed, combover'd serial killer buckled in electric chair
kept staring at the door, expecting an ally to crawl in late but not too late
the mother of one of the victims rattled on about
how she didn't care that the killer had an allergy to the anesthetic used
in lethal injection he's going to die either way what's it matter?
buzz of fly crack of rolled program against empty folding chair
(yes, there were programs, and whoever laid them out knew their typography)
buzz of fly raised upward, toward the black, magma-cooled ceiling
audience chin up, pupils circled fly as the priest droned on
about everlasting life like a Paul Simon song from his youth
like a catcher's mitt from his youth like a youth from his youth
the boyfriend of one of the mothers of one of the victims
said he was hungry pancakes sound good, don't they?
I love it when syrup gets on the bacon, you know? love that.
a pudgy guard with bleary eyes and 12 a.m. shadow
rolled his index finger lowered his brow, telling the
priest to wrap it up so the priest wrapped it up
by reading the names of the victims
Tara Barnes, 17, Rachel Lythe, 10, Julie McPherson, 13,
Serenity Strongman, 15, and Mary Beth Williamson, 13
the priest said something about judgement as
the boyfriend of the mother of one of the victims
took another swat at the fly missed
any last words? the priest asked
where's James? the killer asked, he was supposed to be here
did you guys give him the right time?
the guard nodded to a lab coat by a black box
then a hiss then a hum then an inhale
the first jolt of alternating current for
instantaneous brain death
hard to tell if they succeeded in that
for the second jolt came only a moment
later this shock's aim to fatally damage
the internal organs, overstimulate the heart
and the killer's face looked like a horse's leg
then an exhale then a hum then a hiss
and the killer's face looked like the crinkled
skinmemory of a cicada
it was late most of the best restaurants already closed
but we could go to that diner off 63rd, the boyfriend
of the mother
of one of the victims, said
Feb 16, 2013
Feb 16, 2013 at 1:07 PM UTC
are feelings of love felt alone, feelings of love at all?
or selfish yelps for attention borne
of boredom & a sense we only hold on our own
of childish
- - - - idleness.
singularity less; more independence from a whole
the only company he keeps is furniture
together with the furniture of the house he sits,
with seven seats left empty,
the curtains tales appear to grin
without validation from another he feels
like a child standing
the school's final bells rung
the bustle of the day has droned
now dissipated
the bustle of the day irritated
when it droned, he longed for home
for the bus
as he waits for the bus the quiet surrounds hold tight
but hold cold
like a fridge door keeps, it clutches, encloses
the school yard empty
he stands; singular; out of place in the surrounds
the school bleeds terror when empty
The laughs & shouts & jeers & footsteps
keep the wholesomeness whole
empty of shouts
a graveyard now
the ghosts of the day linger
& they finger
your buttons they push
your tenderness they kneed out
they **** (with their cold digits they ****
just like the furniture does.
just like the furniture in the house laughs
when uninhabited
it silently jeers
'Why so many seats mate?' it pokes with its linen digit; fuzzy but cold
as it continues
'you're alone
waiting for someone
to come by and pick u up
& take u back to home
Mar 18, 2013
Mar 18, 2013 at 9:01 AM UTC
The setting was stately
Overweight, stationary, smoking
she was totally content
unaware of the vibrations
which to me, were uncomfortable
television droned
I wished it were turned off, unplugged
But she did not know
She was dead to vibrations
Jan 20, 2011
Jan 20, 2011 at 5:47 PM UTC
mmm, palce lizać, albo wsadzić je w dúpe i nadawać sygnał wriggly-wriggly alter: wriggly-pigglety; counter-alt? calling it: the miracle of five croutons, and two pieces of sushi... c'mon, let's go crazy! and take it to the excesses permitted by the original feat! (yes, i mean the fish parts of sushi, there's enough carbohydrates in the croutons, so yes, no rice-bed for the tartars).
ć is the puritan's aversion to cz / chai;
or at least an exfoliation curbor.
i write honey,
honey honey honey,
i write honey,
honey honey honey
p'ooh bear
droned in on it.
when i write,
i write honey,
honey honey O'Milee.
from serving in the US and A
navy, to a beach-buggy
accident.
when i write, i write
honey -
*** e -
Atilla styled liquorice -
lee co reesh - not
liquidated rice -
ghosts of latin almost everywhere;
quadruple that.
convene and converse -
contrary collective.
some say this might as well
be the famous goldberg sardines;
when i write, i write honey,
i write: honey honey honey...
will you be my Duracell bunny?
honey, will you be my
******** par excellance?
i see... no, you won't be.
the museum of Greek sculpture
was vandalised!
guess what they took,
the ****** fiendish crooks!
with a wet splash of colour
comes the cold marble artifice -
a bit like the cool-mouth
refrigerator of a woman during
felatio... still don't know
how she gets that gob down
below room temperature.
(heresy input, never start a
sentence with an) and
there you have it,
writing, catering for
abstractionism,
just after he said: they're on a diet.
Dec 14, 2016
Dec 14, 2016 at 10:49 AM UTC
Bleached walls, and incandescent lights
The mind illustrates it’s own world
With dreams, desires and abstractions
What it wants, but can never have
Droned out vocalization, and exaggerated sighs
The mind fills in the gaps
With chatter, remarks and laughs
What it wants, but can never have
Concrete floors, and tiled ceilings
The mind creates it’s own scenery
With grasses, mosses and trees
What it wants, but can never have
Constant progression, and flooded walkways
The mind orchestrates it’s own utopia
With sunshine, breeze and cloudless skies
What it wants, but can never have
Dec 2, 2012
Dec 2, 2012 at 4:46 PM UTC
Moist, moist,
the heat leaking through the hinges,
sun baking the roof like a pie
and I and thou and she
eating, working, sweating,
droned up on the heat.
The sun as read as the cop car siren.
The sun as red as the algebra marks.
The sun as red as two electric eyeballs.
She wanting to take a bath in jello.
You and me sipping ***** and soda,
ice cubes melting like the ****** Mary.
You cutting the lawn, fixing the machines,
all htis leprous day and then more *****
more soda and the pond forgiving our bodies,
the pond ******* out the throb.
Our bodies were trash.
We leave them on the shore.
I and thou and she
swin like minnows,
losing all our queens and kinds,
losing our hells and our tongues,
cool, cool, all day that Sunday in July
when we were young and did not look
into the abyss,
that God spot.
2.5k
"...In the young man's bedroom
police found disturbing
poetry, drawings, and writings.
The boy's father said he
knew about these
and encouraged the
boy to stop them."
The television droned on.
A school shooting.
Numbers, irrelevant.
The boy took his own
life along with his
classmate's.
"His father, the model of
manliness, told him to stop
the only way he knew how to
express himself."
said the decrepit octogenarian
to his squat, plump nurse.
"Yes, Mr. Smith. You shouldn't
be watching that stuff...
it gets you all excited then
I have to come in here
and check your pulse,
and heart, and oxygen."
Would hate
to make you get up...
He thought.
"The anger can't be bottled
up forever. It will come out.
It could have come out
in a therapeutic and peaceful
way, but it came out in
a violent and brutal way."
"Yes, Mr. Smith, the world
is a terrible place."
"That's not what I said.
What stands between
a murderer and an Einstein
is the ability to express
oneself. This boy
was taught that his
expression was wrong, therefore
he was wrong."
"The youth are troubled."
"The youth are perfect.
They haven't had the weight
and burden of time ****** on them.
They are the only ones free
from the ******** story
we all buy of the way things
are. They can
express themselves and
change the world, but
we have to stop telling them
they're wrong."
"Oh of course Mr. Smith, the
children are our future..."
Stupid ***** she's not even
listening. She can't wait to
get back to her one
handed novel she's got
at the reception desk.
The man closed his eyes
and dreamed of what could be
if he were young again.
Jun 5, 2011
Jun 5, 2011 at 6:38 PM UTC
Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom?
You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method.
She always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.
She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.
Never autobiographical
never the truth.
She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”
So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.
She thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.
People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really,
she was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.
She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.
Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.
She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.
She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.
And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.
Remember her?
…of course you wouldn’t.
You would have her more like this:
That weird nerd who doesn’t talk to anyone.
has long hair and draws on his pants,
is awkward in every conceivable way
- and possibly gay.
He spends all day in his notebook,
writing who-knows-what.
Who cares -
- about what his dreams were?
He was just another background character in your life.
There was one time you cheered him on,
at the hot-dog eating contest.
The only time you ever touched his hand
was to give him a high five for that.
You always pitted him.
silently.
Never out loud.
She was there.
Hiding behind his eyes.
And she loved you.
As much as one could love someone in seventh grade.
But you never loved her.
You couldn’t have.
She didn’t even know she existed yet.
Jan 7, 2012
Jan 7, 2012 at 7:30 PM UTC
Napoleon shifted,
Restless in the old sarcophagus
And murmured to a watchguard:
"Who goes there?"
"Twenty-one million men,
Soldiers, armies, guns,
Twenty-one million
Afoot, horseback,
In the air,
Under the sea."
And Napoleon turned to his sleep:
"It is not my world answering;
It is some dreamer who knows not
The world I marched in
From Calais to Moscow."
And he slept on
In the old sarcophagus
While the aeroplanes
Droned their motors
Between Napoleon's mausoleum
And the cool night stars.
1.9k
Remember that chick
who pulled her hair back in a ponytail
had glasses
and wore ripped jeans
that she Sharpied murals on
out of boredom.
You’d see her in class sometimes
mumbling to herself
and doodling
while the teacher droned on
about the scientific method
and she always made you curious
but you could never get close enough
to hear what she was saying
or see what she was writing.
She promised herself that one day
she’d keep a diary
to keep track of the truth
but every time she tried
it turned into a collection of
half-thought-poems
and half-drawings of half-things
half-human and half-something else.
Never autobiographical
never the truth.
She seemed like the kind of girl
who is a self proclaimed vegan
scrawny little thing
with ex-hippie parents
like if you ever talked to her
she would be all in for face
about “going green man.”
So she took you by surprise
when she beat the fattest kid in the class
at that hot-dog eating contest
that chubby ******* didn’t stand a chance.
She told me one day
that she thinks
the truth is just the lie
that you tell yourself the most often.
People called her “book-smart”
because she wore glasses
and was bad at math.
But she wasn’t really.
She was people-smart
in the way a scientist is rat-smart.
She’d sit on the swings at recess
and watch people
her eyes were concerned
like there was something they had
that she lacked.
Her locker was always empty
she took everything home
every night
she left
no residue
no aftermath
no memory behind.
She dreamed of living out of her car
and opening a coffeeshop
and being free.
She knew she was destined
to prove there was no such thing as destiny.
That we make our own reality.
And all of this you found
endearing and admirable.
Remember that chick?
...of course you don't.
Jun 22, 2010
Jun 22, 2010 at 6:31 PM UTC
The well-oiled clunk of padlocks
slotting smoothly home
for dark to close off
rooms to outside days
and droned opprobrium.
The morning shine that
carries breezes brimmed
with birdsong must await
the sliding click and clack
of opened blackout blinds.
Open to a bundled clump of
tumbled, crumpled, crass,
incessant, prickling,
self-reflective musings
binding me to doubt.
It is this lair wherein I
rest and find the peace of
reign; 'Tis here I manifest as
Father Time to forge a faulty
rise and set with blackout blinds.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 6:41 AM UTC
The room was clouded with wisps of smoke, the smell of cheep tobacco mixing with the foul fetter of Budweiser's.
Heavy boots crowded the compact living room, some pacing on the floor, others resting on stools, and one certain pair standing on the couch. As the evening waned, their owners smoked and drank and composed.
The fan droned on above the huddle of men, attempting to counter-act the thick, humid air and suffocating clouds of smoke.
Likewise, the window hung open, a slight breeze entering in, attempting to remind the men that outside there was spring. However, not even the sweet smell of growing grass and greening pine trees could awaken the thinking mass of musicians.
Under the soft whirring of the fan hummed a gentle strum of acoustic guitars, two were in sync, one was free to do what he pleased.
At first the song was melancholy, an almost sickening minor protruding through the chords.
However, the two guitars which played this mournful tune were soon over-ruled by the lone guitar, this guitar introducing an almost ****** tune, sweet with lively colors, walks in the park; moody with aromatic evenings spent in wild-flower fields and peaceful nights sitting by the river, fishing and playing Texas Hold'em for pennies.
This strum of chords soon awakened the other musicians and as their ears perked up to the sound their eyes fell upon the man, the man with the boots that stood on the couch.
As the groups' gaze circled onto the man, he finished with a lulling C sharp minor and pulled the smoldering cigarette from his mouth, cocking his head towards the men and smirking ever so slightly as he proclaimed in his proud, deep, southern accent, an eyebrow raising to mark their heedfulness, "And there, gentlemen, is true music."
Dec 6, 2014
Dec 6, 2014 at 12:02 PM UTC
I can't sleep. I don't want to sleep. I don't know which it is but it's happening, now and infinitesimally forever my eyes are open and not shutting down for the day, not recharging, not doing anything but waiting for something to see and perceive and solve, a problem to appear before them and present itself begging to be taken in and toyed with like a Rubik's cube. I don't want to sleep because sleep is giving up on the day, it's saying the day is over and it's giving up the chance to accomplish the innumerable tasks yet to be accomplished before I sleep that I haven't done and won't do if I sleep now, if I lie down in that bed and pull covers over my head and let myself drift away. I don't want to drift away, can't let it happen, can't let go of control over really the only thing I have left to control which is when and if I go to sleep so I don't, I force myself not to, I expunge the records of thought from my head into a text box and hope that the soft rattling that had droned there softens because now after all of this my eyelids get heavy and I may have to let sleep win, give up the day, defeated, fight again tomorrow because I'm tired. I'm tired. I'm tired of fighting, fighting against the minute tedium tripping along, fighting against transcendental ecclesiastical endlessness, tired of fighting when all I do is get bloodied and bruised, tired of fighting when I can't win because I'm tired. Rest now. Fight again tomorrow.
Feb 4, 2014
Feb 4, 2014 at 1:44 AM UTC
She walked alone.
As the world droned.
With the fog swirling round.
Along the wet grassy mound.
Among the dead trees of autumn.
That flapped in the cold breeze as they hummed.
Distant lights of morning twinkled round her.
Slightly, unsteady, getting brighter.
She hastened away into the gloom of the dawn.
Upon God she wished to fawn.
To instill her hopes into the earth.
To regain her place of birth.
Thither, under a shading sycamore.
Lied a gloomy tomb of yore.
Staring back at her silently.
As if wishing to embrace her ardently.
Thither lied her silent love...
Corrupted through seasons that roved.
Left untouched in the dark.
Like a fading mark.
He used to be a handsome man.
Swaggering along his Father's land.
Smiling at the promise of the day.
Dancing his nights away.
She wist where she had seen him for the very first time.
When the church bell chimed.
When sons of God filled the cold emptiness.
To calm the world's restlessness.
She touched her love affectionately.
For the last time before she left reluctantly.
With tears her eyes dimmed.
She would always come back for him.
She and the tomb shared an old story only they wist.
Of feelings she could never resist.
Her longing for his presence.
Though only exsisted in silence.
Dec 16, 2010
Dec 16, 2010 at 4:44 AM UTC
In her room, she looked out the window
Seeing the evergreen tree swinging in the wind
The raindrops pelting the window
A few birds, swooping for cover
A little girl standing out in all the gray
Brown hair pulled into pigtails
Wearing bright yellow and red
With a blue polka-dot umbrella
Jumping in puddles
Not even using the umbrella
Unless she was trying to collect rain
Driving to a new state
A new home
Leaving friends
She watched as they drove through a puddle
The water collecting on her window
She imagined that little girl
Her pigtails drooping
Her umbrella dragging
As she walked through the muddy puddles
At school, daydreaming blankly
Looking out the window
As the teacher droned on
About fractions, and decimals
Equations and graphs
She imagined seeing herself
Jumping out the window
Into the puddle on the ground
Splashing water onto the grass and plants
She saw herself
Wearing her favorite yellow raincoat
With her shiny red boots
Her blue polka-dot umbrella
Filled with holes
That the water just ran through
Her hair up in pigtails
With her favorite pink bows
She saw herself as she used to be
Before school was hard
Before she moved
Before she got older
She wished she really could jump out that window
And relive those moments
Before she could dream any further
The teacher called her name
Yanking her out of her red rainboots
Leaving her pink bows laying in the mud
Sadness pulling at her eyes
As she was taken from her happy memories
May 9, 2016
May 9, 2016 at 8:43 PM UTC
There is a corridor that has escaped
and is out and is cold
and is overlooking Clarkson avenue.
That much I know for sure.
Because I turned
the cold brass ****
of the cold steel door,
heard the wind bellowing
obscenities as it absconded
berserkly. (I think
the other way.)
And also
walked through.
My mother’s voice has been
droned out by electronic
waves tentacling the immediate
space around me, around her,
and everywhere in between.
She sounds like a strange
robot, made-up. By me?
By God? It doesn’t matter.
Because that is
what is heard now.
That voice telling me with
the tragic kindness of
a mother
that I’ve forgotten
to call her, and my
dad, and my
sister,
and how come, have I
been busy?
How is life treating you?
Pretty good, I say. What’s
new? Nothing. Well then
what’s pretty good
about it, she says.
I laugh, she laughs too,
and I laugh again, inside though,
differently.
Slowly, our voices
wind down and we say
quiet goodbyes so that
I feel ice
about to rush to my
nose, it’s tentative, it
stops, and I
hang up the phone.
I am on the 6th floor of
a sick house, a hospital,
where some are healed,
some die, and others
stay sick. On the
ground, hundreds of feet
down and away
there are people I think, they
look so
small. An obese
mother, probably with
diabetes or hypertension or
heart disease or all of it
together, pushing her
baby in a carriage. A
smoker alone smoking
away something I’m
glad I don’t know and
other people just walking,
moving, like small living
things and then
I look down, closer,
at my own hands growing.
They can be
so large
when they move to
slowly cover
eyes.
Mar 27, 2012
Mar 27, 2012 at 7:55 PM UTC
Here lies ahead our road to freedom
Cracked deep beneath our blistered toes
Seeped full with red and black ink
that had once painted the shades of propaganda.
Our boots, soulless and worn like hearts of lead
leaked blood-stained fear and red-raw dread.
The path ahead of stone and ice stretched on
for decades... or was it days?
Time was the beat of marching men.
Through the thick yellow fog, we spluttered, cursed blind,
and choked on the calls of fallen heroes whose
cries grew distant with every staggered step.
Beneath the ghostly glare of shattered street lights, we trudged
on and on.
Until our ankles, raw and bruised
buckled beneath our weights;
Down onto the ice to sooth sore limbs
and stifle the scorn
that droned on the wind.
We will not surrender. This day
we are men with visions of glory that glow beyond golden gates
and wait for us in old age. But not today.
Today we make history;
So that one day when I sit my granddaughter on my knee
I can tell her why she, her grandpa and her country are free.
Apr 9, 2016
Apr 9, 2016 at 1:00 PM UTC
Our opia
Was *****
On winter nights and
Beneath the summer sun
You looked at me
And fueled my addiction
Our love
Melancholy melody
Droned on
Through the seasons
A constant craving
Until finally I ran out of you
You left me
My addiction still raging full force
You left me
With no help through detox
And that is why it killed me
Dec 28, 2015
Dec 28, 2015 at 1:10 PM UTC
by my window, a fir tree didn't know that
we cut off a branch. the gleeful hum of
a chainsaw in a cherry picker droned
with the rhythm of an obnoxious dirge.
the branch popped off like a lego cowboy's
arm and hit the ground with a thud, like a sack
of potatoes or a coconut. the fir tree didn't
feel as sweet honey poured like blood
from its armpit. the only first aid was the heat
from the spinning blade that cauterized the wound
and sticky sap, a bandaid of resin. the pine cones
didn't know that their brothers and sisters fell with the branch.
a fir tree by my window still tries to scratch at the pane
during windstorms. but this device of Edgar Allen's
got chopped off. if this fir tree stays drunk on its
honeyed blood, it won't notice that it has lost an arm and it
will stay strong and merry, so that we can
chop it down and dress it up for christmas.
Mar 10, 2011
Mar 10, 2011 at 2:29 PM UTC
Warm night stretches its silent breaths across these stagnant hours
They ripple like an unworldly ocean that tempts a sailor’s most strained reach
But my sails are torn through with a wanderer’s navigation
Upon this endless sea of patient hopes and horrors
And I close my eyes dream tight in sewn with such a fright
That upon their parted shutters I will still see nothing
Because your smile feints just over that intangible horizon so taunting
Smile into the day as I pull myself through the dark
So I took on the edge of the world, the edge of sanity
Clutching at the crags to pull myself out of this dull droned deep hell
Above the clouds into my florid reveries with fragile flight
Although I lost all names and labels of retold in folded certainties
I finally made it through the strong woven break
But who’s to tell me when I am to ever wake?
Definitely upon indefinite travel, this weary and constant sailor says
Not even you.
Jun 7, 2010
Jun 7, 2010 at 11:35 PM UTC
**the sound of his incantations
hung like a fertile cloud in the air
till it became locked in an embrace
with the holy smell of incense bare
and all the while he droned on steadily
like a distant engine upon an incline
the birds of the night spun around him
crazy like a moth willing death to come
the hot wax stuck like glue on his fingernails
as the passion heated up and blew a blast
in the direction of mirthless unseen onlookers
witnesses to a macabre rite in the dead of night
the time for forging ties that bind was well nigh
for what better instrument to weld togetherness
than a grim kind of secrecy in the dead wilderness**
Apr 8, 2016
Apr 8, 2016 at 5:41 PM UTC
I am dancing with the darkness,
I am flirting near the fringe,
I am swimming through the outskirts,
I am wading on the rim.
The reflection of my perspective is no longer recognized
By the less traveled sparkled stares, which happily float on by.
The peripherals of my mind are growing
Further and further in,
Wandering with broken gaze
My scope is turning dim.
With the darkness the ground is shifting
As I’m drifting through my mind.
The seasons change the more I’m seasoned
By reflections that graze my eyes;
Of broken scales, false fairy tales and smiles used for disguise.
While it's true it's - as the say - darkest before it’s light,
It still holds true
The opposite ensues
As bright-eyed sunsets sink into the night.
An occasional step, while slippery yet
Can bring to consideration:
That my darkened truth may yet be false...
... But I keep my hesitation
Because truer till is the fiction still that lingers in the sun;
Of droned routines, petty cravings, and gains ill-willfully-won.
These basking sun-tanners wouldn’t dare to enter
Where this jagged path tears my feet,
Making broken bones on shadowed stones
And a hopeful soul deceived.
The hope encased
Is slowly replaced
With new levels, planes;
Profundity of pain
And ever eroding faith.
My setting sun
Is nearly gone
While darkness takes its place.
The nights seem so much longer drifting
Into deeper dimensions, I muster.
Exploring further, I forge freshly charted paths
Discovering new tangential ways to suffer.
And all these feelings must be true, if truth lay in the mind
These dim lit paths are real to me, however seemingly blind
So still I wander through the night,
Rootless, lost, in pain,
Desperate for the smallest glimmer
That I might happen to obtain;
While shifting free
Through the scattered trees
Landing on the ground,
I sometimes stay
To catch these rays
Basking warmly on the stone....
.... But all this remains ephemeral,
As the sunray travels on.
So alone, again I tumble,
Lost and aimless,
Through the depths,
With broken heart,
Broken bones,
And a seemingly broken lens.
But perhaps... it’s YOU who play,
Lost and aimless,
in the luminous light of day.
For when all’s said and done,
After the shifting sun,
Retracts its comforting rays...
...Beyond that light...
...It is the night...
That ever will remain...
Oct 23, 2011
Oct 23, 2011 at 2:27 AM UTC
I decided I didn't like the word
Suicide
After Intermittently interrupting my thoughts
It echoed
And then was too hard to swallow
I decided I didn't like the word Grieving
When it hung in my head
The word too short for it's worth
Grieeeeeeeving
It droned
And still felt empty
No explanation
Feb 12, 2014
Feb 12, 2014 at 6:47 PM UTC